


Twenty Minutes

by wellthatsood



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Alley Sex, Jealousy, M/M, Missing Scene, Non-Explicit Sex, Possessive Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 16:36:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7899988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellthatsood/pseuds/wellthatsood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DeBlanc doesn't like travel agents.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twenty Minutes

The rain was lighter by the time they finished inside. It was still steady, but gentler—small drops expanding puddles across the wet, slick pavement glistening in phosphorescent light. The world had cooled from the heat of the day, dampened by the brief downpour. Peaceful, quiet, just the drips and the stillness and their footsteps—it was almost pleasant. 

Almost. 

DeBlanc held both of their tickets. They were clenched tight under his fingers and shoved deep into his coat pocket, where only he could feel the prickle of the red envelope and the imaginary burn of fear and disdain that accompanied it. 

He’d grabbed them both before Fiore could so much as touch the paper. Like he didn’t want to taint him. Like the burden shouldn’t be his. 

The walked in sync with one another. DeBlanc kept his eyes ahead, never looking back; Fiore kept his on the ground. Right foot, left foot, right—he watched their shoes clacking on the pavement in perfect rhythm. He chewed his bottom lip, rolling imaginary words across his tongue, things to tell DeBlanc to make it better, something that might reassure him or break through the stony, angry set that froze onto his face since they’d entered that office. 

He was spared the trouble of finding just the right words, however, as DeBlanc gave a huff. Mockingly, under his breath, he murmured, “‘ _If that’s what it takes.’_ ” 

Fiore fell a half-step behind. “ _That’s_ what you’re upset about?” 

DeBlanc kept walking, staring ahead, hands clenched in his pockets, as Fiore gaped at him. He caught up in one large stride, but they had fallen out of step. His long legs felt more foreign that usual as he stumbled over himself, never taking his eyes from DeBlanc. 

“What was I supposed to—You heard her, I thought we didn’t have another choice! We—” He hesitated. “Well, seems we did, actually, but I didn’t—” 

“Think?” DeBlanc supplied. Fiore almost agreed, but caught onto the trap at the last minute and instead sealed his lips in a pouting huff. 

Fiore buried his own hands into his pockets, drawing his shoulders together and yanking down until his coat was all kinds of funny angles, to match the look on his face. He was all brows and frustrated twists of his lips as he again struggled to find the words. 

“I-I would have, though,” he said finally. DeBlanc actually _did_ look at him, out of pure surprise; Fiore realized that sounded much better in his head. 

“Not-I’m not saying I _wanted_ to—I mean I didn’t want, I don’t—but I _would_ have—” 

“Keep digging that hole and we won’t even _need_ to take the bus to hell,” DeBlanc muttered.

“I mean it!” he protested with all the desperation he could muster. “I’d-I’d do anything, even _that_ , if I had to. If it’d—” He broke off and kicked at a crushed soda can in the street. It hit the curbside with a dull clunk. He sighed and mumbled, “—If it’d help, I mean. To put everything right. I’d do it.” 

He swallowed and chanced a look at DeBlanc, who was studying him with his head tilted to one side. Fiore realized they’d stopped walking. 

“I know,” DeBlanc said so softly Fiore might have missed it, if he hadn’t watched his lips move. Just like in the office, DeBlanc’s fingers found the crook of Fiore’s arm. He latched on, a gentle but firm hold on the fabric of his coat. 

Fiore glanced down at the point of contact, then back up at DeBlanc’s face. He had a look about him that made Fiore’s brow furrow. 

“Besides, it’s your nature. Do what you're told, ask questions later,” DeBlanc continued, as a smirk unfurled. It wasn’t so much on his lips as in his eyes, staring up at Fiore with an almost feline quality. Fiore swallowed; DeBlanc’s gaze seemed to prickle on the back of his neck.

“That’s-that’s not—” Fiore took a step back as DeBlanc gave a little guiding push on his arm. He didn’t understand. Was DeBlanc mad at him? He seemed it, but then he didn’t, and the way he was looking at him now—

Dimly, Fiore was aware that they were moving. He was following—always _following_ —DeBlanc’s steady hand as they slowly moved off the street, out of the light. Fiore’s backwards steps were hesitant, his expression questioning as he kept searching DeBlanc’s face for answers. 

“Doesn’t mean I like it when somebody gets the wrong idea about things.” 

“What things?” It was not so much a question as an exhale. 

DeBlanc never took his eyes from Fiore’s face, his grip still firm on his arm. His fingers gave a reflexive twitch, a momentary tightening in their grip. His other hand latched onto the belt of Fiore’s coat, giving a swift tug that brought them so close together that both of their necks were craning to still look one another in the eye.

“That you’re mine.” 

“Oh.” Fiore blinked. “So you’re not… you’re not mad?” 

“No.” DeBlanc was nearly purring, wearing a smirk tinged with warning as he gently tugged Fiore from the sidewalk and into a small alley, out of the circles of streetlights. “Not at you, anyway.” 

Fiore’s back hit the wall. The solid brick against him and DeBlanc’s sturdy frame on the other side clicked everything into place. “Oh! You’re—?” He glanced down meaningfully. 

“Now he gets it.” DeBlanc chuckled, leaned up onto the tips of his toes, and pressed his mouth to Fiore’s—firm, hard, wanting. He pulled away with teeth caught onto Fiore’s lip, dragging at it. 

There was a small involuntary whimper somewhere in Fiore’s throat, his hands looping over DeBlanc’s shoulders and clinging tight to the slippery fabric between his fingers. He was glad to have the wall for support, as DeBlanc nipped along his jaw, down his neck, across his throat. 

“I’ll give you twenty minutes,” DeBlanc murmured against his skin and Fiore could feel the smirk. But he didn’t have much time to answer, as DeBlanc’s mouth found his again. 

Hands scrabbled against coats, clawing at fabric for something to grab and prying it out of the way. It wasn’t anything like their usual moments together, which were tender and steady, unhurried. The wall pressed into Fiore’s back; their lips didn’t break apart for a moment and Fiore wondered if they’d run out of air, but the heady rush made it all worthwhile. 

One leg hitched up around DeBlanc, ankle hooked over calf, as they fell into a juddering rhythm against each other. They moved in frenzy—hands on hips, fingers trailing, teeth tugging at moans tucked behind lips. His lungs were going to burst, body budding with tension and breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. 

It might have been twenty minutes; it might have been an eternity. 

But Fiore’s legs were trembling, his body heavy with a warm fatigue and the weight of DeBlanc leaning against him. They were still, except for their breathing and the thrum of racing heart beats struggling to steady. Something dripped along the back of Fiore’s neck; he couldn’t tell if it was sweat or rain water as the warm mist fell around them. 

He wrapped a sluggish arm around DeBlanc’s shoulders, who nestled his head against Fiore’s chest. For a moment, there wasn’t anything else—no travel agents, no neon lights, no hell, no rain, no Texas. 

Through the haze of their stillness, Fiore laughed, soft, almost giddy. DeBlanc raised his chin to look him in the eye, one eyebrow arched. 

“All yours,” Fiore said, an explanation and an agreement. He chuckled again even as he pecked DeBlanc’s lips. “Wouldn’t want it any different.” 


End file.
